


Doc Croc and the Terrible Tea Party

by DHW



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Fluff, Garak has a teddybear's picnic, Humor, Julian is... puzzled, M/M, stupidly plush crocodiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:41:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24725458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DHW/pseuds/DHW
Summary: Garak and Julian have a tea party on the Defiant. With friends. Soft, inanimate, distinctly cuddly friends.War does strange things to people.Or, at the very least, to Garak.
Relationships: Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Comments: 24
Kudos: 106





	Doc Croc and the Terrible Tea Party

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kaelio](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaelio/gifts).



  
  
This was it. He'd officially gone peculiar. 

Bananas. Round the bend. Mentis more compost than compos. It was the stress of the situation; low level and creeping, its tendrils had finally wormed their way into his brain like a vine, strangling what little was left of his sanity. It was the only explanation for what he was seeing. Unless... 

Julian blinked.

No. Still there. And just as ridiculous as before. 

Strange, really, what war could do. The way it could change things. People. Perspectives. And from Julian’s perspective, something had most certainly changed. 

Not necessarily for the better, either. 

Garak was having tea. Not unusual in and of itself. Indeed, the pair of them were scheduled to share a pot at this very moment, the only measure of routine that had made the rocky transition from station to ship intact. It was the highlight of Julian’s day; a way to unwind after all the stresses and strains of life upon the Defiant. Tea and replicated scones in their shared quarters before bedtime, the tray always positioned just so upon the covers of the bottom bunk (Julian’s) so as not to let the spout of the pot drip upon the sheets. 

A ritual, of a sort. A daily dose of polite, if deeply restrained intimacy, the only things ripped open the packets of Julian’s un-replicated teabags (a gift from his mother), no matter their feelings upon the matter strictly not at hand, love being what it was: primarily, complicated. 

No, what was unusual was the company Garak was currently keeping. In this specific case, Kukalaka and a large, violently green cuddly crocodile. Both of which were staring at Julian with wide, plastic eyes, cups of tea steaming gently before them like some strange, slightly warped-version of a childhood tea party. 

“Ah, Doctor,” said Garak with his usual dose of enthusiasm. His eyes were just as wide as those of his companions, and sparkling with something that might have been mirth. Maybe. “How nice that you could finally make it.”

The comment was pointed. A direct condemnation of Julian’s lateness to the proceedings, the vagaries of frontline medicine deliberately ignored in favour of working himself into some variety of righteous snit. As though the extension of Julian’s shift were his own fault rather than that of the Dominion ship that had blasted a hole in the Defiant’s starboard flank, injuring four of the ship’s engineers in the process, all of whom had to be patched back up again before the doctor could make an exit.

Julian frowned. 

Usually, Garak was more than understanding. This was not the first time he had almost missed supper. Nor, he suspected, would it be the last. 

Perhaps Garak’s earlier altercation with the bulkhead had been more spectacular than he had first thought? If there was one thing he had learnt over the course of their friendship, it was that when Garak was suffering from a headache, he was not a man to be trifled with. Perhaps the dose of hydrocortiline he had given him earlier had not been enough? Either that, or Cardassian skulls were not as resilient as Garak had previously led him to believe; this could well be the effect of a concussion. Stranger things had happened. 

He took a tentative step forward, eyes locked upon Garak, searching for anything that might go some way towards an explanation for the sight before him. 

It was a deeply odd tableau: Elim Garak, former spy, current tailor, and part-time defector to the Federation, sitting primly upon Julian’s bed, napkin tucked into the collar of his pyjamas, having tea with Julian’s elderly teddybear and its erstwhile companion.

It had been a gift from Molly, the crocodile. Kukalaka, she had boldly informed him one lazy afternoon all too long ago, needed a friend, and apparently that friend was a very large, very soft plush crocodile. What exactly she had meant by that, Julian didn’t know. What he did know was that the look Miles had given him upon receipt of the gift had been more than a little sly—presumptuous, even—and had merited a thorough trouncing at the dart board later that evening. 

Julian took another step towards the bed, shedding the jacket of his uniform as he did so and discarding it haphazardly upon the floor by the laundry basket. He loosened his collar and rolled up his sleeves; the slightly higher-than-comfortable ambient temperature was one of the distinct downsides of sharing a sleeping space with a Cardassian. 

Well, that and the snoring. 

(And the long, aching nights of knowing that the object of one’s deeply held desires lay no more than three feet away. But they didn’t talk about that.)

Resisting the urge to reach for his tricorder, he pinned Garak with a hard stare and said, “Are you feeling alright?”

“Perfectly fine.” Garak gave Julian a beatific smile. “Would you care to join us?”

“Us being?”

“I’d have thought it obvious,” Garak replied, nodding in turn at each of his plush companions. He took a sip of tea, peering intently at Julian over the rim. “I’m afraid we started without you.”

“So I see.”

Garak patted the empty section of bedspread beside him, careful not to jostle either of his cuddly bedfellows (or their tea cups) as he did so.

It was more than a little surreal, it had to be said. The stuff cheese dreams were made of—and if Julian surreptitiously pinched himself just to check he was, in fact, fully conscious and not in the midst of some strange fever-dream, then that was his prerogative. It had been a long shift, after all, and he had fallen asleep at his desk on more than one occasion today. 

A small, sharp pain rippled out across his forearm from the point where his nails dug into his skin. He rubbed at the hurt, and thought to himself, ‘No such luck’. This wasn’t a dream. A flight of odd fancy conjured up by an overworked brain and a yearning heart. Whilst it was true that Garak did occupy his dreams more often than not, it had to be said, this would be the first instance in a long while where he had been fully clothed for the duration. 

No, this was real. And how did the saying go again? Ah, yes. Truth _was_ stranger than fiction. 

Especially where Garak was involved. 

"We were just talking about Iloja of Prim," Garak said, pouring a fresh cup of tea as Julian approached the bed. 

"Were you?"

“Oh yes,” Garak continued. “Doc Croc has some _very_ interesting thoughts regarding Iloja’s use of antimetabole in _Reskeh_.”

Doc Croc? Iloja of Prim?

Julian’s frown deepened. 

The book in question, _The Epic of Reskeh, and Other Stories_ , was sat upon his pillow, the datarod on which it was encoded glinting softly in the light. Not that he’d had a chance to read it, yet. 

As for the rest, Julian could only assume Garak was referring to the crocodile. That in the relatively brief window between their last meeting and now Garak had christened the toy. Possibly out of sheer boredom, or a slightly vindictive urge to prove a point. Molly herself had neglected to name him. She had simply given Julian a note, written in large, uneven letters that read, _‘Plees look after this crokodile’_ and uttered something about marmalade. Another of Miles’ doings, Julian suspected. 

“Oh, really?” said Julian as he sat down beside Garak. He reached for a scone. “And what does Doc Croc have to say about it?”

Garak gave him an arch look in return. 

“I think such a conversation would be a waste of both my time and yours, considering you have yet to read the work in question.”

Julian settled back against the wall, careful not to upset Kukalaka’s teacup as he folded his long legs up onto the mattress. His shoulder brushed against Garak’s. A familiar heat began to bloom in his chest. 

The closeness, as always, was more than slightly intoxicating, despite the strangeness of the situation. Julian could feel the heat of Garak radiating through the fabric of his undershirt; smell the scent of the oil he used on his scales, smoky and deep; almost taste the tea that sweetened his breath. 

It was the same every night. Had been for months. An evening of barely successful restraint, followed by a night of tossing and turning upon their respective mattresses like frustrated teenagers.

It would be embarrassing if it wasn’t quite so addictive. 

Julian took a large bite out of his scone. He watched as Garak’s eyes flickered briefly downwards to follow the movement, pupils dilating a fraction as his tongue darted out to sweep away the cream that had caught on his upper lip. A small shiver shot through him as he saw Garak’s nostrils flare. Heard the sharp intake of breath. 

This _attraction_ was something they had been dancing around for years, remaining unvoiced, yet palpable, an ever-present undercurrent to each and every one of their interactions. Even the arguments. 

No. Wait. _Especially_ the arguments. 

“I’ve been very busy,” Julian said, polishing off the rest of the scone, fingertips sticky with jam. He licked them one by one, carefully maintaining eye contact as he did so. “You may not have noticed, Garak, but there is a war on.”

Garak shifted uncomfortably on the bed. 

“Not so busy that you couldn’t find the time to finish the book of Vulcan poetry Commander Dax gave you last week,” he said primly, setting his empty teacup down upon the tray. 

So that was it. Garak was jealous. It was an odd way to express it, taking a friend’s soft toys and holding a passive-aggressive tea party, but who was he to judge? This was certainly more entertaining than his previous dealings with those beholden to the emotion. Julian bit back a grin. 

“Perhaps I prefer Vulcan poetry to Cardassian?” he said, unable to resist needling Garak further. 

Garak’s eyes flashed dangerously. “Well, there’s no accounting for taste.”

“Funny. Jadzia said exactly the same thing to me when I told her I’d volunteered to share quarters with you,” he replied.

A look of exaggerated exasperation on his face, Garak turned to the plush crocodile and said, “This is exactly what I was talking about. I don’t know why I put up with it.”

A blue flush was beginning to creep up across Garak’s neckridges, which they both chose to ignore. Just as they ignored the way Julian’s shoulder continued to brush against Garak’s. And the complete and utter ridiculousness of the situation. 

“Talking to yourself is the first sign of madness, Garak,” Julian said, taking a sip from his teacup. “Trust me, I’m a doctor.”

Garak gave Julian a cynical sort of grin, gesturing to the crocodile with an expansive wave of his hand. “But as you can see, I’m not talking to myself.”

“I’m not sure soft toys count.”

“So you say, Doctor, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to get a second opinion.” Garak turned to face the cuddly crocodile once more, his face pensive. “What do you think?” He paused for a moment, before nodding and continuing, “Quite right, Doc Croc. Dr Bashir simply has no imagination.” 

“Hey!”

“His words, not mine,” Garak said, holding up his hands in mock innocence. “But I find that I do agree. As, I’m sure, will your beloved Kukalaka, should I ask him.”

Julian glared at Garak. Then Kukalaka (just in case). Then blinked. 

This was all getting more than a little ridiculous. He frowned, annoyed at himself for getting caught up in what was no doubt some sort of evil plan. It was Garak, after all. 

“I’d like to know where Doc Croc got his medical degree,” he muttered into the rim of his teacup.

“Somewhere prestigious, no doubt. He’s a very attentive doctor. He listens to all my ills with an open ear.”

A second accusation. Things were getting interesting. At this rate, by the time this strange little tea party was over, Julian would likely have a laundry list of slights and perceived offences for which he would be expected to atone. 

He sighed heavily.

“And what ills would those be?” he said, thinking of the crack to the head Garak had received earlier that day, and—a little guiltily—the way he had casually dismissed him. 

“That’s a matter of doctor-patient confidentiality, I’m afraid.” Garak patted his thigh in a condescending sort of way, the touch sending sparks crawling across Julian’s skin. “I’m sure you understand.”

“Whatever happened to second opinions?” he replied, trying to ignore the heat that had begun to creep across his cheeks.

This wasn’t the time. 

(Though he did have to concede that it probably was the place.) 

“The rate at which things go in and out of vogue these days is truly astounding,” Garak said with a sniff. “More tea?”

Julian sighed. 

Again. 

He placed a hand over the top of his cup and said, “How’s your head?”

“Fine, thank you,” Garak replied, setting the teapot back down on the tray, eyes locked firmly on the crockery as he worried the teaspoons.

“I can give you another shot of hydrocortiline before bed if you’ve still got a lingering headache?” he said softly. 

“What was it you said earlier? Ah, yes. I’ll live.”

Fine. 

If Garak wanted to play that game, then Julian was going to have to up his. 

He drained the last of the tea from his cup, set it down upon the tray and reached over towards the console located by the foot of the bed. A few moments and a quick tap of the keypad later, he turned back towards Garak. 

“I’ve told Ensign Kahrimanis not to disturb me unless it’s an emergency,” he said, gathering up both Kukalaka and Doc Croc’s untouched teacups, and setting the tea tray down by the door, ready for recycling come morning. “I’m not entirely sure you should be alone tonight.” 

Then, he moved back towards the bed, standing on the lip of the lower bunk as he reached up and grasped the blankets—three in total—from their place on the top. With a deft flick of the wrist, he tossed them down towards Garak. He moved to grab the pillow when he felt a hot hand grasp his ankle. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” Garak said incredulously. 

“Getting ready for bed,” Julian replied, glaring down at Garak’s hand until the Cardassian removed it from his leg. 

“That’s my pillow.”

“I know,” he said, pulling it down and shaking it until Garak reluctantly took it from him. “But I told you, I don’t want you sleeping alone tonight.”

Julian stepped down from the edge of the bed. He looked at Garak; there was a wariness around his eyes that hadn’t been there before. His hand, Julian was surprised to note, rested upon Doc Croc, fingers absently carding through the stuffed toy’s fur. 

“The top bunk is hardly so far away from yours as to be considered alone,” Garak said carefully.

“You just accused me of being an inattentive doctor.”

“That wasn’t quite what I meant.”

No. He supposed it wasn’t. Still...

“Yes, well, you made your own bed, and now you have to lie in it.” Julian paused. “Or rather, now you have to lie in my bed. Next to me.” 

Garak froze, breathing rapid, eyes widening almost comically as Julian began to fuss with the covers around him. His face paled as Julian knocked companionably against his shoulder.

Not good. 

“Would it help if I said Doc Croc can come too?” Julian said after a moment. 

Garak’s eyes narrowed.

“I’m not a child.”

“Never said you were. I just thought you valued the good doctor’s opinion.” He gave Garak a sly look. “And anyway, lest you forget, he is Kukalaka’s closest and dearest companion. Molly would be terribly cross with me if I left him out in the cold.”

Garak snorted. 

“It is thirty-two degrees in here. Even I wouldn’t class that as cold.”

“He’ll get lonely,” Julian countered.

“He’s a toy, Doctor. I very much doubt he has any feelings at all on the matter.”

Julian rolled his eyes.

“I will order you into bed if I have to, Garak,” he said, fluffing the pillows with a little more force than was truly necessary. “Don’t you think for a second I won’t.”

“Such a terrible bedside manner. It’s a wonder any of your patients like you at all.”

“Don’t be so overdramatic. You like me just fine.” 

He placed his hands upon Garak’s shoulders and pushed him back against the mattress. Surprisingly, Garak put up little resistance. His face still held a slightly sallow cast, but a blue flush was beginning to creep up the ridges of his neck again. Julian grinned. 

He poked Garak square in the chest and said, “If you didn’t like me, you wouldn’t have let me do that.” 

Garak gave him a half-hearted glare.

“Who’s to say I don’t already regret it?” he countered. 

Julian ignored the question. Instead, he quickly and efficiently stripped out of his undershirt and trousers, tossing both to the floor without even the pretense of trying to aim for the laundry basket. Clad only in his boxers, a rosy flush beginning to creep across his chest at the _look_ upon Garak’s face—’hunger’ was perhaps the closest word for it, though ‘conflicted’ also seemed like it would do—he climbed up over Garak and settled down behind him, his side flush against the blissfully cool metal of the wall. 

“Computer. Lights,” Julian intoned. 

The room plunged obediently into darkness. Julian drew the blankets up around them, adding an extra to Garak’s side for good measure. 

“Comfortable?” he asked after a moment. 

He already knew the answer. Garak was stiff as a board beside him, breathing hard (though trying his best to hide it). 

“The bed is too small, and your elbow is digging into my back.”

“That’s Kukalaka, actually.”

Garak grunted. “Kukalaka _and_ your elbow.”

Oh.

Right.

Julian shifted.

“Sorry.”

There was a pause. One filled only with the sound of their shared breathing and the occasional creak of the bed beneath them. The air was heavy with tension. 

“Why Doc Croc?” said Julian when the silence became too much. 

“I would have thought it was obvious I was making a point.”

“Well, yes. I’m not an idiot,” Julian replied, trying to resist the almost overwhelming urge to bury his face in Garak’s hair. 

“An interesting supposition,” Garak counted.

There was the brief rustle of cotton sheets as he rolled onto his side. It was followed by the jab of a thumb between Garak’s shoulder blades. 

“Shut up.”

Another pause. Shorter this time. In which Julian gave himself a stern talking to regarding his hands, their proximity to Garak’s back, and the foolishness in reducing the gap between the two. He had managed to coax Garak into his bed. Well, order him into it, at any rate. Torture though it was to be so close and yet unable to touch, he was reluctant to send Garak running for the metaphorical hills (or less metaphorical top bunk). He flexed his fingers, then wrapped them around Kukalaka for good measure. 

“He suggests you should put your arm around my waist, by the way,” Garak said after a moment, his tone soft, almost tentative. 

Julian blinked. 

“Who?”

“Doc Croc.”

_Oh._

“Does he?”

“Oh yes,” Garak insisted. “Medical necessity.” His voice turned sly. “Though I would like a second opinion on the matter. I hear on the grapevine that they’re very much back in vogue.”

Julian moved closer, arm sliding around Garak’s waist as he pressed himself to the Cardassian’s back. He placed a tentative kiss upon the nape of Garak’s neck, and was relieved to hear the soft sigh the action garnered. 

“How’s that for a second opinion?” he whispered against Garak’s scales. 

“Good enough.” Garak replied. “For now.”  
  


**Author's Note:**

> AND THEN THEY BANGED. 
> 
> THE END.


End file.
